


Untoward

by mugsandpugs



Category: X-Men Evolution
Genre: Hate Sex, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Shameless Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-08
Updated: 2017-09-08
Packaged: 2018-12-25 06:17:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,508
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12029928
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mugsandpugs/pseuds/mugsandpugs
Summary: "My cover wouldn't have been 'blown', as you so put it, had you kept your mouth shut and your eyes to yourself, Alvers. I don't know what you were doing at the meetup, but I'm going to have to leave town now. That's two months of reconnaissance work down the drain because of some punk I knew back in high school crashing in out of nowhere to ruin my gig.""I don't suppose you'd believe me if I told you I was hired to find you," replies Alvers lazily, holding his gloved hands above his head to check how badly the adrenaline is making them shake. "Hired by none other than your own boss-man. He says the entire operation's been compromised and that it's time for you to come home."





	Untoward

The scene: a single camping trailer on a deserted campground in western Oregon. The campground in question is crunchy and glistening with the first of winters' frost; ice has formed in clumps at the fringes of the thin nearby stream. Grills and picnic tables are left abandoned. A sad, lone tire swing hangs from a naked tree. Parked beside the shabby trailer is a familiar, flashy red convertible, looking out of place in the otherwise melancholy organic yellow, white, and brown environment.

All is still and quiet for a moment, the only sounds the occasional distant birdcall and the constant, slow babble of the half-frozen stream running low over round rocks. Then, a stampede of four desperately racing feet approach. Two tall and handsome young men of about the same age, one neat and well put together, the other with a disreputable, roguish look about him, disturb the serenity as they sprint all out towards the trailer. 

The first of the men, wearing strange, red-tinted sunglasses, runs silently, crouched forward, his movements precise and controlled. His facial expression is very focused and solemn. The second, his considerably longer hair whipping behind him in a tangled and untamed frenzy, is laughing breathlessly, grinning manically as though having the time of his life even as they run from an unseen danger. He whoops as he bounds up the steps of the camping trailer and collapses, panting, once inside. The first man slams the door behind them and slides to a crouch, hands on his knees as he struggles to catch his breath and remain standing. 

The second man, sprawled on the floor half-under a tidy kitchenette table, is still laughing between his coughs and pants. "Well, that'll wake you up in the morning," he finally manages to get out, lying bonelessly on the Formica floor. He seems inordinately pleased with himself. 

The first man is not so relaxed. He peeks nervously between the blinds of the rectangular over-sink window, but sees only squirrels and birds watching him curiously from the trees. "Do you think they followed us all the way here?" he asks. 

"Forget it, Summers." The second man seems to contemplate sitting up for a moment, then overrules it, instead stretching his long limbs out like a starfish, despite there not being nearly enough space to do so. "We lost them miles back. Lucky for you I was there to save your ass, huh? I haven't seen cover blown so badly since... ever. They would have killed you for spying on them; you don't know those guys like I do. They're bad news. What were you even thinking?!" 

Summers frowns at his foil. "My cover wouldn't have been 'blown', as you so put it, had you kept your mouth shut and your eyes to yourself, Alvers. I don't know what you were doing at the meetup, but I'm going to have to leave town now. That's two months of reconnaissance work down the drain because of some punk I knew back in high school crashing in out of nowhere to ruin my gig." 

"I don't suppose you'd believe me if I told you I was hired to find you," says Alvers lazily, holding his gloved hands above his head to check how badly the adrenaline is making them shake. "Hired by none other than your own boss-man. He says the operation's been compromised and that it's time for you to come home." 

"What?!" Summers barks, losing his cool at last. He looks despondently at the other man. "That's impossible. I _almost had them._ Just another week and I'd have busted their mutant-fighting ring right open. I can't believe he'd just-" he makes a fist, relaxes it, counts to ten. Then he counts again, and again, until the angry red in his face fades to a natural pale coloring. 

It's at that moment, timed with the precision of an expert, that Alvers slyly remarks, "Guess they didn't need you after all." 

It's a shot well fired. Hurt eclipses Summer's face for a half instant, immediately replaced by rage. Then he has Alvers up by the collar of his shirt with a fist cocked to throw the first punch. Alvers, having gotten the rise that he wanted, however briefly shattering his companion's carefully amassed control, smirks condescendingly even as his face darkens from lack of oxygen. 

Summers forces himself to stop and count to ten yet again. He _is_ still in control, like everything arranged sparsely and neatly in his camping trailer. Everything in its place. He'd clearly like to put Alvers in his place, too, wherever that may be. This is evidently a long-standing default for their relationship. Though Scott is the larger of the two, there's a raw and scrappy look to Alvers that suggests which man has won the most of their physical confrontations. 

When Summers neither throws the punch nor releases him, Alvers' cocky, untouchable farce begins to show some strain. "Gonna hit me, pretty boy?" he goads; evidently, this is not an outcome he would be particularly opposed to. "Or are you too afraid I might hit back?" 

Summers has won, and he takes the moral high ground with the humble grandeur of a king accepting his throne and scepter. "You're not worth the effort," he decides, and sets Alvers back to his feet, turning his back in a clear dismissal. "I don't have time for your attitude problem. I'm going to have to hook the trailer back up to the car and start on home- _oof."_

Face crumpled in hot rage at the disinterest, Alvers has taken the initiative to throw the first punch. Scott's smug superiority only grows: he is proud that he has more control over his emotions than this _child_ before him. He blocks the next punch, and catches the third. "It's funny how much you say you don't care what I think when you so obviously do," he remarks patronizingly. Alvers' face grows blotchy in fury. 

They stare each other down for a long moment, posture screaming what words cannot: that their many years of familiarity have done nothing to soften the pit of hatred forever festering between them. 

The stare does not break, nor does its heat lessen, but it does, subtly, quietly, change without either registering the exact moment when. Alvers, the weaker, is the first to lower his gaze to Summer's mouth; a split-second mistake that is immediately noticed, not without relief. 

"I _knew_ you got off on this," Summers scoffs disdainfully, throwing Alvers off of him. "This is just what passes off as foreplay in whatever backwoods hole you crawled out of, isn't it?" 

Humiliation zings Alvers' much more expressive face. "Like you don't, too," he argues, damning himself with that confession even as he fumbles for social salvage. "Always picking fights with me so you get to feel like you're above someone else, when we both know you're not." 

"I don't have to prove the obvious." There is truth to Alvers' claim: the spark behind Summers' tinted goggles is distinct intrigue. "You've always been trash." 

He is clearly expecting another thrown punch when Alvers shoots an arm out, and surprise furrows his brow when he is instead dragged closer. The smile that graces Alvers' face is all teeth. "What does that make you, then?" he questions. "You've been dying to fuck this trash since you met me. You'd beg me if you thought there was half a chance I'd let you." He presses closer, and the sudden stillness that creeps up Summer's long frame is tangible. He doesn't dare move or breathe when the younger man invades his space until there's nary a hair's breadth between them. "You want me," he croons, triumph now a goading certainty. "And it just eats you up inside." 

The physical strength and speed of Summers is on full display when he pounces, slamming Alvers' back into the wall of the kitchenette. Before Alvers can do more than make a winded noise upon impact, he is flipped over onto his stomach and then dragged back into Summers' chest as a large hand rucks up his shirt. He watches his own chest come into view in the tiny bathroom mirror as Summers paws him. 

Summers aggressively fights the many winter layers in his effort to touch hard, bare olive skin. He runs his palms over abdominals, scrapes fingernails along ribs, massages eager palms into giving pectoral muscles. He is growling, a low animal sound from somewhere in his belly: as possessive as it is angry. Some unruly part of him believes, perhaps has always believed, that Alvers belongs to him. 

Alvers, for his part, gives up immediately and eagerly on all sense of decorum. Moaning wantonly, he allows himself to be manhandled, aiding in the shucking of his own clothing. He watches his reflection with half-hooded eyes and leans back against Summers. Despite mutual dislike, it seems he trusts him, at least, to support his weight. 

He pushes Summers' face away when the other man turns his unwanted attentions to the side of his neck, and the rejection sinks through better than he'd hoped. Summers leaves his throat alone in favor of watching his white hands dance on Alvers' bare brown skin, stroking incessantly, mapping and memorizing and claiming. If he is to give in, even just the once, he is determined to remember with all of his senses. 

Impatiently, Alvers takes one of Summers' large wrists and brings it around to the waistband of his pants, reaching for the zipper of his jeans. Summers slaps his hand away, which results in feral growling. 

"I should make you beg for it," he says with smug superiority at having caught an Avalanche in his arms. "But I think that'd just leave both of us frustrated. So I'm just asking whether you want this. If I don't hear a verbal yes, this all stops now." 

Alvers' growls rise in tempo when the Cyclops at his back stills: a frenzy, he feels his blood boiling to a frenzy, and as always Summers is starting and stopping and acting like he's the better man to be less affected by it. 

"I mean it, Alvers." 

So he spits out a single _"Yes,"_ though that feels like ceding ground he'd rather not give up yet. Every part of him does, truly, sing an operatic high-C _yes_ to this tryst. It doesn't mean he likes being forced to confess wanting it. 

And then Summers' long-fingered hand plunges into his jeans, and he forgets how to be angry for a moment. Because there's a hand, an unfamiliar and strong and calloused hand, wrapping around his hard length. His own hands fly to lower his boxers and jeans- watch the zipper teeth, watch it; has Scott never done this before?- and then it's hard and fast and _so good_ and friction when his foreskin is rolled back and a thumb rubs his glans. 

_"Fuck,"_ he yelps, and it's the sound of a wounded dog, but his hips are fucking Scott's fist like the slut he's proud to be, and his legs have spread of their own accord, and he's moving without the permission of higher thought because once he has a taste of something, he can't stop until he has it all. In that moment, he would have begged, had he only the breath to do it. As it is, he tips his head back onto Summers' shoulder, throat bared to the ceiling, and never notices the way Summers watches his face with rapt concentration. 

That's not to say that it isn't weird. It is, oh it's weird, to watch himself get jerked off in the mirror and to realize with a heart attack that never stops that it is _Summers_ doing this to him, Summers with a hand around his cock, Summers dropping lower to cradle his plush balls and roll them with an incongruous gentleness as they grow tighter and closer to an end. He bites his own lip and tastes blood as moans, and pleas threaten to rip out of him and spill him over the kitchenette floor for Summers to see just how soft he really is. 

His eyes are open, though, and he sees through the white haze of approaching so-good-it-hurts orgasm that Scott's face, too, has changed, and he watches Alvers' reflection with something that is almost tenderness. And that's too hard to deal with, so he closes his eyes as he cums with a cry in multiple blinding long white streaks that paint the doorjamb and then Summers, the bastard, just keeps stroking him, milking him from the balls up until he's just. Empty and whiny and too damn sensitive, and he feels more vulnerable than ever when he has to push the hand off of him. 

He would have fallen, he really would have, but Summers is supporting more than 75% of dead Avalanche weight and he doesn't even have the decency to pretend it's a hardship. 

Summers doesn't react when, of their own accord, Alvers reaches behind their heads and touches the Cyclops' neat, thick hair. If he keeps his eyes closed and Summers stays quiet, he can almost pretend this is normal, stroking the rabbit-soft mop so different from his own tangled and coarse locks. 

He misjudges distance, though- a clumsy, messy thing he is- and knocks the glasses from Summers' face and onto the ground. 

"Sorry," he says, hoarse from keening, and ducks to fetch them. When he turns, Summers is standing, eyes squinted shut, expression morphed to one of fear- and now he is the vulnerable one- achingly hard and blind to the world, at the mercy of an Avalanche who rarely shows him any kindness. It makes Alvers feel tender enough that he ensures in the mirror his own facial expression tells no stories before stooping to pick up the glasses. He unfolds their legs and carefully hooks them back over Summers' ears. "There. You're fine." 

It's not until he re-opens his eyes that Alvers realizes they are now standing within each others' arms, face to face and meeting eyes like they're more than what they are. It's a boundary breech he can't easily shake, so he ducks out of it instead by sinking to his knees and reaching for the belt-buckle now at eye-level. 

"My turn," he says. "Yes or no, Summers?" 

The buckle is done for, next is the zip, but he pauses, at last understanding why Summers had demanded it of him earlier. Because they are monsters, but they aren't _that_ kind of monster, and they both know that an ignored 'no' would do so much more damage than a simple punch or verbal barb. They want to _best,_ not to _break._

The 'yes' that follows is quiet but unmistakable, and it's all he needs to free Summers' erection with more than a little curiosity. 

Summers is circumcised; long and pleasantly curved upward with a pretty pink head. His full and straining sac is perfectly proportioned; like the rest of him, his dick could be a model for something. Casting dildo molds, maybe. He almost laughs at the predictability of it all- what had he been hoping for; some part of Summers to be less than cross-the-t's, dot-the-i's perfect? 

Licking his lips, he runs his tongue over the head and down the shaft- more for lubrication than effect, but Summers hisses just the same and his fingers flex like he'd like to grab onto Alvers' hair, which makes the latter smile. "What," he teases. "I figured a guy like you would get head all the time." 

"I don't usually want it," Summers confesses, upper cheeks an attractive pink; appealingly embarrassed. "I don't usually... do this." 

"What, get laid?" 

"No. Not often." 

Alvers wants to tease him about it; he opens his mouth to do just that, then closes it. Their discussion of yes-and-no has instilled an almost unwelcome level of concern inside him- a heavy burdon he will have to rid himself of as soon as possible. For now, moaning around a cock already halfway down his throat, he doesn't have it in him to lie to himself: he _likes_ knowing that Summers can say no. He loves knowing that Summers chose, for him, to say yes. 

Blowjobs are messy. They make Alvers' eyes water and his jaw ache even as drool spills over his chin. But he can make them good, and the show-off in him wants to do just that. Doing a mediocre job with someone who loves you is acceptable, but with a person who _hates_ you?! Absolutely not. His pride wouldn't allow it. So he deploys the wicked tricks of tongue he's picked out over the years; his hands greedily knead Summers' firm thighs and then palm his testicles. He even boldly reaches around to squeeze Summers' ass, just because he can. (It generates a musical cry, and so he does it again.) 

Summers, the egomaniac, likes it when Alvers moans and sighs, and his knees actually quake at the sound of a minuscule gag, and so he hams it up a little. No need to make himself feel too stupid for a little show. 

It's when the pain in his jaw goes from achy to unbearable, several minutes in, that he starts looking for cheat codes, and then he smiles to himself. This is too easy. Summers is too easy. 

"Scott," he whines, and he knows precum is shining on his lips when, startled, Summers looks down at him. "Scottie, I need you to cum on my face; _please."_

He's heard of screaming orgasms before. Grunting orgasms. Long, painful, bone-chattering ones. He's heard of being positively fucked out. But orgasms borne of surprise are new. He's laughing so hard that it's his own damn fault when he gets hit with a glob of semen in the mouth. 

"You are so easy, dude," he cackles, swiping at the cum on his eyebrow with his sleeve. "I always know how to push your buttons." 

Scott, for his part, only heaves for breath, still looking rather dumbfounded as Alvers ineffectively tries to clean his very messy face off. Gradually, this frosts over. Alvers is still laughing when Scott stands and re-adjusts his clothes and makes for the door. 

"Aww, come back," Alvers protests. "Hey, so you like some very mildly kinky shit; it's cool. I mean, who doesn't? I know this one girl who was super into the sound of sneezing-" 

There's the crank of metal and engine outside as Scott prepares to hook the camper up to the vehicle, ignoring Alvers completely. And while it's true that he knows how to push Summers' buttons, that's a two-way street. Alvers hates being ignored more than almost anything in the world. 

So he stands, marches outside, drags Summers to him by the arm, and kisses him on the mouth. 

He doesn't even have the decency to make it a harsh kiss, all teeth and growls and bullshit alpha male posturing; it's instead a wholly unexpected soft brush of lip on lip, with fingers curled into hair and long-lashed eyes fluttering closed. He kisses Scott, and when the other pulls away for breath, he drags him back and kisses him again, and again and again until Scott is knocking him back and licking into his mouth. Alvers thinks idly that peeling back Scott's controlled mask he pretends makes him better than the rest of the world to reveal a starving animal underneath is one of his finest achievements, to be kept in a trophy case and cherished. 

"This is absolutely disgusting," Scott grounds out between kisses. "It's _you._ And you taste like-" 

"Like you?" Alvers suggests in a rumbling tone, and he very deliberately licks a swath of Scott's cum from the corner of his mouth. 

Scott's eyes trace the movement, and watching his pupils expand behind his red glasses is heated fluid gratification. 

"See, here's what I think," Alvers continues conversationally, his voice barely breaking as Scott backs him into the side of the red convertible. "We shouldn't leave until nightfall, anyway, This team you're with, they're still out hunting for us. They won't be looking in old campgrounds like this; we sneak out when it's dark, leave the headlights off until we reach the interstate, and it's smooth sailing from there." This time he allows Scott to tangle a hand in his hair and yank his head back to snuffle at his throat. "No hickies, dude. That's a hard no. What do you say to the plan?" 

"You talk too much," says Scott immediately, knocking him back over the car's hood. "You're much more tolerable with a dick down your throat." 

This makes Alvers beam and if he's rather lovely when he smiles, Summers just thinks all the more waste it is: such an attractive shell containing a positively spiteful soul. "That can be arranged." 

"On one condition: you'd better still hate me when this is all over, or I'll kick your ass." 

"For once, you and I are in agreement on something."


End file.
